


Push Me Away With Both Hands

by orphan_account



Series: The Heart Bleeds Blue [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 06:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20187538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After discovering the identity of the Flame Emperor, Dimitri ruminates on his heated actions and thoughts in the shackles of his deep anger.





	Push Me Away With Both Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Dimitri is of age in this fic, and I’d also like to warn of mentions of suicidal ideation, in case anyone is bothered by that. Also, there is a big spoiler in this fic so I suggest turning back in case you haven’t reached the midpoint of the game. I should also mention that this fic was inspired by the shove Dimitri gives Byleth in the ‘Loathing’ cutscene, which. Whoa. Could talk about that for days.

There’s a deep shame within Dimitri, one that burns stronger with every passing day. He swallows thickly, but this shame tastes like the bitter wine served at dinners of a distant past- his father favored bitter liqueur. The more it burned, the better, his father would say with an unresigned smile as he swilled a glass. Bitterness makes a man, and his father was the man he idolized most, as well as the one he let down most. Dimitri knows better than to believe in ghosts, but he knows that a man can be haunted by his failures until the day he dies. As Edelgard flees, her back- unscathed and without his lance puncturing her flesh- taunts him. 

There’s nothing to be done that night, not after Hubert and Edelgard scatter off, leaving behind a trail of tarnished blood and ruin in their wake. Dimitri trembles with anger, pacing the empty tomb littered with the bodies of thieves and crests of old. ‘_At what cost?_’ he asks himself over and over as he paces the floor, accompanied only by the sound of his own heavy footfalls and the silent, seething rage in Rhea as well. That alone is comforting, to see her Grace this way- normally so composed, the picture of ethereal warmth, and now, her face contorted in anger. 

__

__

_‘At what cost?’ _

“Your Highness,” Dedue says out of the fog, shocking Dimitri out of his stupor. It doesn’t even register that Dedue has a bracing hand on Dimitri’s defeated shoulder. He looks up and finds an all too familiar worry etched on his vassal’s face, and this same expression is mirrored on his classmate’s faces. All of them are shaken, faces openly distraught at what they’d seen- at what he’d done, surely. No one speaks any further.

Somehow, he finds himself looking past them, scanning for the professor’s face. She leads them out of the tomb with only a flippant hand motion, leading them out as though nothing had happened. Like the world didn’t come crashing down onto their sagging shoulders. He knows she too is capable of feeling more, knows she’s not made of stone. He’s worried when he finds her calm as ever, face betraying nothing. Surely, there was a disgust for him she was excellent at keeping bay. He’d shoved her aside so easily, it was almost frightening that he could, once he finally started to settle down and think back on it. Why was it so easy to do so? Why no hesitation to lay a hand on her in anger? As if sensing that he’s thought of her, she takes a moment to place her own hand on his gauntlet- the very same hand that pushed her aside like a prop, and she gives his armored hand a squeeze. She says nothing even as she meets his eyes, and he is solemn in his gratitude. He is definitively the lowest of the low, that he knows absolutely, to take her kindness even after everything. Shame burns within him, stirring parts of him he wishes desperately to suppress. These thoughts plague him the entire walk to his quarters, and he’s thankful that a visibly exhausted Dedue still takes a brisk pace to walk beside him, placating him with just a nod as they each retire to their respective quarters. 

__________________________________

He thinks of that shove all night- of freely placing a hand on her if only to fulfill his self-serving need for answers, even if it only resulted in blood caked all over the hilt of his lance. He removes his armor, methodically, mentally taking note of each piece stained with thickened black blood. He’s ashamed, deeply ashamed, because he feels nothing. Remire had him terrified, because it was all happening again, he was sure of it. His father’s screams echoed in his head, along with his stepmother- all of them lost, all of them seething with anger at his inability to do anything. He’d returned from the arduous journey back to the monastery and set to cleaning his armor that very night, stained black with the blood of those plagued men. Every inch he had cleaned, his own hands and cloth stained with crimson, stained with the lives of those unwilling and unable to fight just to live a miserable day longer. The next morning, clad in pristine, clean armor so shiny Cyril had stopped to marvel at it, Dimitri felt like nothing more than a husk of man. His armor seemed to mock him, as if to remind him of the shell of man he was, displaying the emptiness inside where a person used to be. Dedue has given him a plain look after a long once over, and solemnly promised that he would never have to soil his hands further without cause. Both of them knew this was a lie.

He knows full well he cannot wash away his sins so easily, so he casts sides his armor and puts his head to the feather pillow and imagines sleep. Imagines being able to simply close his eyes and not be plagued with thoughts of his father’s head unceremoniously falling to the flames of everything he’d know dear, to be able to just be. He takes a deep breath, sighing so deeply he feels as though his lungs may not fill back up, and lays on his stomach. Here, face hidden in the pillows, he feels a comfort in not being seen for who he is. The gentle prince is a mask he wears, fooling no one. The very idea that the professor would move past this vile display of primal rage without consequence makes anxiety pool in the pit of his stomach. Sometimes, he wishes she would say something to unburden him, just so he could know what she truly felt, but he knows that hope is as fruitless as the idea that he can change the innate truth- that he is a monster, nothing more, nothing less.

An amoral monster, whose life was saved in exchange for those more worthy. This alone, a grievous sin, has no chance for repentance, even if everyone tried to remind him otherwise. Edelgard herself had told him this, and what was that then? A lie, well and truly, just as it is now.

A lie he knows makes him an irreparably sick man. Nothing more than an animal, he thinks, _knows_, considering how quick he was to lay his hands on the professor. She was in the way, he rationalizes, but guilt pools in his stomach nonetheless, and his cock twitches despite his reluctance to allow himself such base desires. He grunts, rolling his hips by instinct into the creaking mattress, and grimaces when the friction assuages his ailing heart, even momentarily. 

It’s wrong, thinking of her like this.

But he’d do it again, if he could. Touch her. Even in his right mind, if she would let him. Given the choice, in another life, he’d be gentle, even if it was false, given his marred soul. In his heart of hearts, he wishes he could be the good man she deserves, but he’s a beast, unrestrained and barely holding his composure, even as he fantasizes about her.

No, if she allowed it, he’d be unable to practice niceties even if he willed it. He’d talk his crude hand and tear open her blouse, revealing pale, full breasts. Unable to contain himself, he’d roughly grasp at a breast, brushing his calloused thumbs over the impossibly soft flesh of her nipple. It’d earn him a gasp of surprise, breathy, she too unrestrained. 

These thoughts wouldn’t dare to disgrace his mind as a prince of Fodlan, but as he is now- a thoroughly revolting man, he relishes the thoughts. He flips onto his back, freeing his heavy cock, and gives himself a firm squeeze and he nearly retches when he finds his palm wet with precum. He grins tightly, barely able to contain his self hatred, and thinks back to plush breasts with nipples the color of her lips. Like blush, the rosy tint matching her pussy, scattered with green hair. A wretched man like him wouldn’t bother undressing her fully. He wouldn’t deserve to kiss her, even if the very thought got him shamefully hard on several occasions. A wretched man would spit onto his hand messily as he imagines placing his hands behind the backs of her knees, bending her enough so that her flower opens up for him, glistening with arousal. He gives himself a hard pump at the very idea of her arousal being visible, her hole pulsing with desire matching the throb of his own cock underneath messy strokes of his hand.

Were he better than an animal, he wouldn’t imagine a second further; pumping his own rigid cock to the rhythm of what it’d be like to fuck her, his hips slamming into the backs of her thighs, wet squelches as he drives deeper into her. In that moment; he imagines that she’d look up at him the way he looks up at her after being instructed, or after an arduous battle, hopeful. Like she needs him as much as he needs her. Like she wants him. Like she loves him.

With an abrupt, stifled shout, his body goes shock still, body wracking with spasms as he cums into his closed fist that trembles with the force of his orgasm. His breath remains unsteady, and impossibly loud for what feels like a lifetime after. He squeezes his over-sensitive, still throbbing cock, punishing himself by making it hurt, and growing dismayed when he realizes that he doesn’t dislike the pain. It’s disgusting, he thinks, the feeling of his warm cum spilling between his fingers as he thrums with blood. His mind races, he’d done this before, each time as shameful as the last, and yet this time, he’s so revolted with himself he cannot stand to wear his own skin. He wipes his hand on the sheets, the stain suspicious. The gauntlet he’d worn, blessed and cursed by the professor’s benevolence, mocks him, as if all knowing of his pathetic desire to be not only forgiven, but known, loved. 

A pathetic dream indeed, he thinks bitterly, tossing the gauntlet to the floor as he leaves his quarters for a scalding bath.

**Author's Note:**

> This will likely be a long running series focusing on Dimitri and Byleth’s relationship, thank you all for the encouragement thus far!


End file.
